


Where Are Your Hands, When You Think About Me?

by EscapingEarth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired by a gifset/picture, M/M, Multi, Other, amazing what one phrase can do to the mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:34:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EscapingEarth/pseuds/EscapingEarth
Summary: An angel, or a demon, sits thinking about hands.





	Where Are Your Hands, When You Think About Me?

**Author's Note:**

> The fun of this piece is it can be read from either character's perspective. I started writing it from Crowley, but then started kind of describing Crowley, so it morphed into a weird conglomeration of "maybe they're both thinking the exact same thing" 
> 
> Inspired by a post I saw on tumblr/facebook that I can't find again. I'll edit to source it when I get it back.

Where are your hands, when you think about me? Are they interlocking fingers cutting close with each other, or tangled in the fronds of your hair clutching desperately in pain? Are they clenched, simply, held firm on kneecaps with a fight internally to stop them going down, down, to where they shouldn’t go? Do those spindle-thin fingers wrap themselves carelessly around the stem of your favourite wine glass, whilst you think of me? Are you alcohol muddled and incoherent or do you insist on sobriety when my face, my name, floats into your mind? That roaring temple of your mind. If so, which so, why? Do you even think about me when I am away, when our bodies aren’t pressed near by the necessities of fate? Is there no thing in the world, no obscure little reference you might catch as you walk those familiar streets, that might cast your mind to me? And then, there, what would your hands do? Move to straighten your clothes - a distraction, you are always impeccably dressed - or thrust deep inside the caverns of your pockets? I wonder sometimes if they might be bigger on the inside, if you might be seeking to hide within their depths. But hiding from what? 

I think of you, endlessly. Give me a thousand years, a thousand more, I’m sure that wouldn’t be enough to count the ways. The ways I see you, feel you, hear you, want you. My hands are everywhere; drunkenly grasping bottles, soberly clutching books, the air, tugging at my collar to loosen it, when did it get so tight, the air so thin? There are temptations even for me at the sound of your name, the thought of your face, and my hands go there, too. Places they shouldn’t and places they should, rub my eyes to chase the dreams away. I’ll grip the edges of tables as you talk, rapt, neither one of us noticing my knuckles turn white with the effort. 

Where are your hands, when you think about me? Are they someplace pleasant, wonder beyond telling, or do they descend into fiery pits of discord, willing my thought away? Do they reach across the table into an empty space, longing to meet mine, or recede into the darkness, a safe distance from the imagination of my touch? When you think of me, what do you see? An angel, a demon, a creature to be despised or - dare I say it - even loved? Or do I think too hard, too fervently? Maybe my character is one you simply tolerate. Not everything in the universe is a polar opposite, after all. It’s just not built that way. I would rather be despised than tolerated, I think. Firmer ground is always the safest, even when it isn’t pleasant. If you could see my hands now, you might think me mad, as they perform a silent dance carrying themselves from one destination to another. Running through my hair like cars on a racetrack - what do you think of me? Where do I belong to you? Climbing up the countertop to find that one vintage with the highest alcohol content, will it enhance this or dull it? I’m unsure. I’m unsure which effect I want. Next my fingers are gripping lapels, pulling at jacket sleeves to free me from this prison clothing so I can move freely, more freely. I pour, I drink, I gasp for air. Hands aside I wish for you to be here, to quell the fluttering unrest of my heart.

Where are your hands, when you think about me? Mine trickle down like feather drops, willing and waiting for you. Whatever your hands ask of me, mine are sure to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I'll write a long piece. Until then, enjoy the ficlets.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism welcomed and encouraged.


End file.
